


I should set the steel trap of your thighs

by platypus (kite)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 15:15:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10619598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kite/pseuds/platypus
Summary: After Skaro, Missy visits Clara.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to nonelvis for beta reading. Title is from "Despite What You've Been Told" by Two Gallants; the sentient carnivorous lichen are from William Sleator's _Interstellar Pig_.

Clara wakes up to the smell of toast. 

It's Wednesday, she realizes blearily. The Doctor isn't supposed to come by until after she's done teaching, but all bets are off when he gets bored. Or peckish. Or both; she hopes the toaster's still functional. As a toaster, that is. 

She pulls a dressing gown over her pyjamas on the way to the kitchen. "Doctor?"

"Makes you breakfast in bed, does he?" The voice is familiar: dry, Scottish. Female.

Clara stops short in the doorway. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Missy is leaning against the counter, licking jam off her fingers. "Looking in on you, of course. Do you have any idea how many people have psychically interfaced with a Dalek control system and survived?" She shrugs. "Well, I suppose someone might have, sometime. Headaches all gone?"

With an effort, Clara manages not to touch her temples, where the tiny scabs had taken weeks to heal. The Doctor had been furious (in a tightly suppressed way, as if he hadn't wanted to frighten her, which somehow made it worse) that the dermal regenerator on the TARDIS couldn't fix them instantly. But they're gone now. The dreams of blinding pain in her head, of her voice coming out as a Dalek's robotic shriek, of the Doctor pointing a gun at her—those have faded, too. Almost completely.

"What do you care?" she asks, keeping her voice steady. "You tried to kill me. You tried to make the _Doctor_ kill me." 

Missy sniffs. "Oh, please. That was a test. Which you passed, barely." 

"And if I hadn't?"

"Then I would have had to get him another pet." Missy shrugs. "Honestly, I expected you to talk your way out of it faster. But there you were, wasting time on tears and mucus and I don't even want to know what else. Humans. Must you use bodily fluids to express everything?" She narrows her eyes. "Though you did somehow keep a tight enough grip on your emotions to avoid shooting him. You've got potential." 

Clara crosses her arms. "Hurt me again and he will kill you." 

"Tch. We both know how unreasonable he gets when he's emotional. But he'll be over it by now. Look at you, not a scratch on you." 

"You didn't see him afterward. Don't push him." 

Missy licks her lips. "Like _you_ don't know exactly how far you can push him. And then push a little bit further. Just to see what happens." 

Her avid gaze is unsettling; it's those pale, eerie eyes, too much like the Doctor's. Clara looks away first. 

"You're out of jam, by the way." Missy pushes a button on her vortex manipulator and vanishes.

***

Clara's first impulse is to tell the Doctor. Of course it is. She's got her phone out and everything, but something stops her. Maybe this is exactly what Missy wants, to send her running to the Doctor. To tell him what, exactly? 

_Doctor, Missy threatened me._ Except she hadn't, not really.

_Missy… critiqued me? Ate all my jam?_

Clara puts down her phone. It sounds so petty, when she thinks about it like that. A schoolyard squabble, kids whingeing about something they ought to be able to work out between themselves. 

"Ignore her," Clara says, trying it out. "She's only doing it to get a reaction."

In Clara's experience, that isn't always true. But with Missy, who so clearly does everything for attention? If she wanted to disturb Clara, she's succeeded. Clara shouldn't let her disturb the Doctor, too. 

Then again, maybe Missy _wants_ her to hide it. To start lying again, to drive a wedge between herself and the Doctor. Or maybe she just wants Clara to second-guess herself into a spiral of uncertainty, in which case it's working. 

But when the Doctor does arrive that afternoon, it's barely an issue, his interest in her day being perfunctory to begin with. There are plenty of distractions to be had. 

And if she catches the Doctor eyeing her narrowly at odd moments, like he can tell she's not being entirely forthcoming about something, he never says anything about it. 

Neither does she.

***

For days afterward, Clara's alarm clock sends her flying out of bed, but each time she finds the kitchen empty she relaxes a little more. Until a week or so later, when she comes home on a cold and rainy afternoon to find Missy sitting primly cross-legged at her table. She's made tea. Clara ignores it and looks in the cupboard for more. 

"How is the old man these days, anyway?" Missy asks. "Over his mid-life crisis? What did he have to say about my little visit?" A smile spreads across her face when Clara doesn't answer. "You didn't tell him."

"I'm not your errand girl," Clara says. "Whatever you want from the Doctor, tell him yourself."

Missy sighs. "I don't know why you hold such a grudge. I thought we were past all this."

"What?" 

"Your little human boyfriend," Missy says. "It wasn't my fault. I didn't push him into traffic. I wasn't driving the car."

"No." Clara slams the cupboard. "We are not talking about Danny. You will never say another word to me about Danny ever again."

"Oh, the puppy's learned to snarl. Go on, show your milk teeth." Missy takes a sip of her tea and grimaces. "Faugh. Next time I'm bringing proper tea."

"There won't be a next time," Clara says. "There is not even a this time. You're not my friend, my girlfriend, my anything. You're not even my own personal nemesis. Go chat up the Doctor if you're lonely." 

"Really, if you think about it, I did your boyfriend a favour. How many people get a second chance at death? He certainly improved—"

"Get out. Now." 

Missy rolls her eyes and slaps the button on her vortex manipulator.

***

The next day, Clara comes home to an unfamiliar box of tea in the cupboard, with a sticky note attached— _Sorry I missed you. M_ —in loopy, flowing script. 

She isn't sure whether to be disturbed by the idea of Missy being in her flat without her, or pleased at having stood her up, however inadvertently. 

She does not try the tea.

***

It's quiet after that for a while. Well, not _quiet_ —Clara and the Doctor meet Virginia Woolf, watch a binary sun eclipsed by twin moons, and save Florida from sentient carnivorous lichen. But it's almost restful, not having to deal with Missy. One Time Lord with no sense of personal boundaries is more than enough in her life. 

Of course, it doesn't last. A few weeks later, Clara's having a quiet night to herself—okay, she's marking essays and eating Chinese straight out of the box, but that's nobody else's business—when Missy appears in a buzz and flash.

"You shouldn't have!" Missy plucks the box from Clara's hands.

Clara plucks it back. "I didn't."

Undeterred, Missy peers in the paper bag on the table and comes up with the dumplings that Clara had been planning to have for lunch tomorrow. She sits next to Clara on the sofa, puts her boots up on the coffee table, and digs in. "You know," she says after a moment, "sometimes I feel like you don't appreciate me." 

"There's a reason for that." Clara skims through the next essay, making notes. 

"Who was it that introduced you to the Doctor, again? Oh, yes, that's right. Do you have any idea how hard it's been, keeping you two together? The phone calls, the adverts. I worked in that tedious shop for _days_ , waiting for you to come in." 

That does give Clara pause. She tries to imagine it, knowing what she knows now. Can't. "My god, the shop. How did you manage—did you have to do an _interview_?"

Missy sniffs. "I was sent over from another shop to help, thank you very much. There's more than one sheet of psychic paper in the universe." She points her chopsticks at Clara. "And then, after all my work, I turn around and find out you've given each other up. The lying, the noble sacrifices—I didn't know whether to shed a tear or lose my lunch. So I sent you dream crabs for Christmas, all gift-wrapped." 

Clara blinks. "That was you?"

"You thought it was _coincidence_? Do you pay any attention at all? You were prepared to mope away the next sixty years. I'm just saying, it's been a full-time job, and a little gratitude wouldn't hurt." She frowns down at her food. "I want the lemon chicken."

Clara sighs and trades boxes with her. She turns over the next essay, tapping her pen against the table. Finally she gives up and asks. "Why me?"

"You were a _present_ ," says Missy. "He never gets me anything. I wanted to put the two of you together and watch the chaos, and I wasn't disappointed. He needs someone to throw his keys in a volcano occasionally, and I can't always be there."

Clara shifts uncomfortably. "That wasn't me, not really. I'm not like that." 

"Oh, yes, you are. Amazing, isn't it, the things we learn about ourselves?" 

"Stop it. I'm not like you. I'm nothing like you." 

"You could learn to take a compliment." Missy sets down her chopsticks. "Well, I've enjoyed our little chat, but I can't stay. Prior engagement. Ta. We really must do it again sometime." 

Then she disappears, leaving Clara to gather the empty containers, irrationally annoyed that Missy didn't clean up after herself.

***

Clara doesn't sleep for days after the Morpheus machine.

At first, it's great—her flat is immaculate, her lessons are planned for the rest of the term. Now, though, exhaustion is creeping in, and she still can't sleep. It's like her body's forgotten how. She's taken up knitting and watching nature documentaries, hoping she'll doze off if she gets bored enough. 

It's four in the morning and she's learning everything there is to know about otters when Missy materialises in a burst of vortex energy, her dress wet and her hair half-wild, a cut on one cheekbone trickling blood. 

"What happened?" is the first thing out of Clara's mouth, before she can bite her tongue. 

Missy startles, hand covering her vortex manipulator. Scowls. "What are you doing here?"

"It's my flat."

Missy looks around as if for the first time. "Why, so it is," she says blandly. "Must have hit a bookmark by mistake." 

"Well, un-bookmark me," Clara says. "And don't bleed on the carpet." 

"Is that concern? I didn't know you cared." 

"I just had it shampooed." Clara turns her attention back to the slightly lumpy sock she's been working on. 

Missy wipes her cheek gingerly, looks at her hand. "Mind if I clean up?" 

"Go ahead," Clara says, leaving the _you will anyway_ both implied and ignored. It does save time. "First aid kit's in the bathroom cabinet." 

She finishes knitting one more row of sock before she processes the fact that she's left Missy wandering around her flat unsupervised, and goes in search of her. 

Somewhat to Clara's surprise, Missy is where she belongs, towelling her hair dry in the bathroom. Her jacket and blouse are draped over the sink and she's down to her corset, all leather and laces and white, white skin. Splendid shoulders, graceful line of neck, collarbones to die for: Clara isn't sure if what she's feeling is envy or lust. Some deadly sin or other, anyway. Missy would probably approve.

Just then Missy straightens, shaking her hair back, and their eyes meet in the mirror. For once, Clara fails utterly at dissembling. "I just, uh, wanted to see if you needed anything."

"Well, isn't this interesting," Missy murmurs. She taps the corset. "Like the tech? Bigger on the inside. I'm not breaking a rib in the name of fashion. Be a dear and unlace me, would you? I'm soaked."

Clara actually takes a step forward, unsure if she's being baited or flirted with or if this is a perfectly normal thing to ask. Covering her confusion, she reaches for the first aid kit instead. "Here, let me help with that cut—" 

"There's no need—" Missy says over her, catching Clara's wrist, and they both freeze for an awkward moment.

Then Missy half-turns toward Clara, drawing her in, and kisses her. 

Clara jerks, startled, but stands her ground, and then it's all too easy to kiss Missy back, to turn that first fleeting brush of lips into something deeper. It's been so long, and she's so _tired_ , and Missy's—

God, not _safe_. Clara breaks away with a gasp. "What did you do to me?" 

"Me? Oh, love, how long has it been? I haven't even _started_ doing things to you."

"No, you must have hypnotized me, or—or—" 

"What, this?" Missy's half-lidded gaze burns over Clara, taking in her flushed cheeks, her quickened breath. "That's all you, darling." 

"You could make me think that." 

"Of course I could. I could manipulate you, deceive you, even drug you if I had no class. But knowing that you actually want me? That's priceless." Missy traces a finger down the back of Clara's neck, watches her shiver. "Humans _are_ such fun. But you break so easily. Did I ever tell you what happened to my wife?"

Clara takes a steadying breath. "She killed you."

Missy arches an eyebrow. "The Doctor never told you that. He'd never tell anyone half of what happened on the Valiant." 

"He didn't have to. I read UNIT's file." 

"Did it include the part where your precious Doctor wept over my body, begging me to regenerate? It was adorable. I died just to spite him." 

"But here you are."

"Contingency plans, dear. You should try them sometime." Missy cups Clara's cheek, leans in, and Clara doesn't stop her. "Sorry, you've got a bit of"—she swipes her thumb beneath Clara's lower lip—"there. Lipstick." 

Clara swallows hard. "You should go now," she says.

For a wonder, Missy does.

***

Clara sleeps the next night, and immediately wishes she hadn't when she shudders awake from an entirely too explicit dream. Nightmare. Something. 

She turns on the bedside lamp and sits up for a while, trying to dispel the memory of the dream and quell her desperate arousal without actually doing anything about it. 

Her flat is quiet. Too quiet. Maybe she should get a cat. 

It takes her two heartbeats to realize what a bad idea that would be. She sighs, and lies back down, and tries to sleep again.

***

Friday night, short black dress, strappy sandals: Clara feels _interesting_ for the first time in ages.

Too bad she's home early from her date. Her non-date, rather. It's the second time she's gone for drinks with the librarian from her book club; she's cute and funny and she laughs at Clara's jokes, but it's also increasingly apparent that she's either uninterested or hopelessly straight. 

And Clara likes her a little too much. She's not ready for that. She's looking for something simple: have a fling, blow off some steam, exorcise some demons. 

The Doctor keeps pushing her, all those broad hints about hobbies and relationships and _you humans like chilling with Netflix, don't you_? But there's no point in dating. Her life is too complicated. It only reminds her painfully of Danny, and she still has no idea on which date you're supposed to tell someone about the alien in your life. 

Make that _aliens_ , plural. 

Missy doesn't even look up when Clara comes in; she's sprawled on the sofa, reading Clara's battered copy of _101 Places to See_. "Phew, human pheromones," she drawls, waving a hand under her nose. "Open a window before I choke."

Clara slams the door—locks it, though she's not sure why she bothers—and slips off her sandals. "Oh, god. You are absolutely the last thing I need tonight." 

"That, my dear, is where you're wrong. The _last_ thing you need is a rabid cybermat in your refrigerator. But let's not talk about that." Missy flips idly through the book. "Has he ever actually taken you to any of these places? Or is it all 'These are the noxious swamps of Ghastenkarb, where I once brooded for six months straight'?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but he's shown me wonders. I've seen things you can't imagine." 

"If you're talking about his naughty bits, I've got news for—"

"I'm not," Clara interrupts, before Missy can provide any more detail. 

Missy wrinkles her nose. "Well, why not? You're obviously gagging for it. Don't tell me you're waiting for that sanctimonious prig to make the first move. He'll never let himself, not with all his precious ethics and inhibitions. You'd be better off kicking some nice human's legs out from under them or learning to use one of those toys in your sock drawer."

"You went in my _sock drawer_?" 

"Or you could find someone without all those pesky ethics and inhibitions." Missy gives her a sidelong, considering look.

Clara's starting to feel a little lightheaded, and it's not from the girly drinks. Maybe there's more than one way of exorcising demons. "I thought you said Time Lords were above all that."

"No, I said your animalistic little species couldn't comprehend real friendship. But sex? All those messy, base, biological urges?" She smiles brightly. " _Let's_."

***

They make it to the bedroom, but not the bed. Missy boosts Clara onto the dressing table in a clatter of makeup and nail polish and kisses her jaw, her throat. Bites down on her shoulder, where the mark will be visible if she wears this dress again anytime soon. The little flash of pain seems to light up every nerve in Clara's body. Then she's pushing up Clara's dress, tugging her knickers aside; she slides two fingers in, stroking shallowly as Clara's toes curl. 

Missy leans closer, breathing in Clara's ear, and whispers, "Somewhere, the Doctor just got a random hard-on, and he has no idea why." 

Clara jerks away from her. "You're disgusting." 

"Mmm. But you still don't want me to stop, do you?" She twists her fingers sharply and it isn't comfortable and it's very, very good. 

Clara moans, thunking her head back against the mirror. "Oh, god, please—can you please just stop talking for a minute." 

"Now, now. You knew what I was when you picked me up." 

Clara winds her fingers through Missy's hair, pulls her down to kiss her roughly; Missy consents to be silenced, or just finds the alternative more diverting. She curls her fingers, presses her thumb against Clara's clit; Clara shudders and bites Missy's lip, hard, as she comes. 

"Oh, Clara," Missy says dreamily, licking the blood from her lip. "I knew I should have kept you for myself." 

Clara's heart is still pounding. All her anger seems to have been wrung out with her orgasm, but she hasn't had enough. Not nearly. She kisses Missy's swollen lip, unbuttons her jacket and blouse, slides her hands inside. 

Missy's clothes are like a puzzle box, layers under layers, chemise under corset, drawers under petticoats under skirts. Underneath it all she's angular, spare, perfectly at ease in her own skin; _nude_ is the word for that elegant composure, stretched out on Clara's bed. "Come here," she says, soft, for once not mocking or patronizing. Draws her knees up, apart. 

Clara comes to her. Settles between her legs, kisses her breasts, her belly. Her hand drifts lower: soft, dark curls, slick warmth. She dips inside, experiments with angles, glides her thumb over Missy's clit. 

Missy squirms, sighs. "You can keep doing that."

Clara does, mouth following her hand, until Missy's fingers are digging into Clara's shoulders, her breath coming short. She stiffens with a little cry that's not poised or calculated and it's _spectacular_. 

Missy bows her neck, hair falling across her face, and murmurs, "Don't stop yet." 

Clara plunges her fingers deeper, running her tongue over Missy's clit until she's calling out again, harsh and hoarse. It's heady, exhilarating; she keeps going, coaxing more of those helpless little noises out of Missy, feeling her quivering beneath her, slick around her fingers. Her satisfaction is almost as fierce as Missy's when Missy finally moans, arching up, shuddering to another climax. 

When Clara settles next to her, Missy slips her hand back between Clara's legs, stroking idly. Clara's breath catches. "It's one of the most delightful things about regenerating into a female body," Missy says, nuzzling Clara's breast, licking her nipple back to hardness. "Lack of refractory period. Shall we go again?" 

Then Missy rises up over her, and there's no more talking for a while.

***

Clara's throat is dry with gasping, her fingers twisted in the sheets. She's pinned facedown on the mattress, Missy half straddling her, her pelvis grinding against Clara's hip, sweat sticky between them. One of Missy's hands is clamped hard on her shoulder, fingertips resting perilously close to her throat; the other is buried between Clara's legs, stroking slowly, deliberately. Circling Clara's clit, over and over, not quite where she needs it but maddeningly close. 

"You can beg if you want," Missy says, entirely too calm. Clara's muscles are trembling and aching, but Missy's hand somehow stays perfectly steady. She's been holding Clara on this precipice for—god, she's not the Time Lady, she has no idea how long. "I'm not saying begging will _help_ ," Missy says. "But you can."

Clara swallows, drags in another breath, tries not to make a noise. She's nearly there, it's so close, it has to be. But she can't make it happen, can't force it; the slightest movement would ruin that almost perfect pressure. Missy won't let her. 

But Missy is breathing harder now herself, pressed tight against Clara, riding the same rhythm as her steadily moving hand. Everything that's been building for so long, so slowly, it's all adding up to _this_ , and Clara takes a sobbing, grateful breath as it tips slowly toward inevitability. Missy makes a thrilling, desperate noise, and finally her fingers press right against Clara's clit, flicking it once, again, and that's it, she's coming. For an instant she's utterly beyond herself, falling, hurtling at incredible speed, but Missy is clutching her tightly, anchoring her, shuddering with her. She doesn't know or care whose cries are ringing in her ears. 

When they're calm again, quiet, Missy lays her head on Clara's breast. "How does your little human heart keep up?" she says, soft, wondering. 

Clara falls asleep like that.

***

Clara wakes sweaty and disorientated, hugging a pillow. Alone. She stretches, feeling a faint ache in her muscles, a lingering haze of satisfaction, and tries not to think about where either of them came from. 

Then she sees a glint of metal, something half-buried in the blankets, and abruptly she's fully awake. It's a silver sphere about an inch in diameter, marked with interlocking circles that remind her of things she's seen on the TARDIS. A deep groove divides it into hemispheres, and a malevolent red light blinks on what she presumes is the top. It's probably not a bomb, she thinks, after an initial flutter of alarm. But it's probably not a Gallifreyan sex toy, either. At least, she hopes not. Because now she really has to call the Doctor. 

He doesn't answer the phone, to Clara's relief. She leaves a message, grateful for that little bit of distance. "Missy's been here. I think there's a problem." She hesitates, then rings off. 

She doesn't hear the wheeze of materialisation, but she's barely dressed before there's a sharp knock at her door. A glimpse through the peephole reveals a harried-looking Doctor.

He brushes past her without a greeting. "I scanned," he says. "What have you been _doing_? No, don't tell me. First things first." 

He puts on his sonic sunglasses and paces into the kitchen. Going straight to the cupboard, he pulls out the box of tea Missy left and upends it on the counter. A silver sphere rolls out. He repeats the process until he's collected half a dozen: one between the sofa cushions, one in the refrigerator, one in the first aid kit. One in her sock drawer. 

He picks up the final sphere from the bed, and Clara's suddenly aware of what it must look like: the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes. Not all of them are hers. Something else on the floor catches her eye—Missy's brooch. She pockets it, but not before the Doctor notices. 

"I slept with her," Clara blurts. "I mean, not slept. You know what I mean." 

His mouth narrows in a tight little non-smile. "Yes, well, you're a grown woman. Free to make your own mistakes."

Clara crosses her arms, feeling very small. "I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing for the wrong things. But _this_." He holds up the silver sphere. "How long has this been going on?"

"A couple of months. I mean, not all of it. She showed up one morning…" 

"And you didn't think to mention it." 

"I thought she was trying to get to me. Trying to use me to get at you."

"Yes, and?"

"And I thought I could handle it!" 

"Well, you did a bang-up job!" the Doctor snaps, but then his voice softens. "You could have told me. I could have helped." 

"I thought I had it under control." 

He blows out his breath in frustration. "You think you're protecting me, so you don't tell me, and then you're embarrassed, so you _still_ don't tell me, and next thing you know there's a completely assembled _dematerialisation jammer_ in your flat." He nods at Clara's horrified expression. "It's a trap. Surprise, she used you. But you knew that. Tell me, when she's made these little visits, how has she been travelling?" 

"She's using a vortex manipulator," Clara says, then completes the thought: "She doesn't have a TARDIS, does she." 

"Not yet," the Doctor says. "But next time the TARDIS landed here, it would have been stuck, like a fly in a spider's web. She would have had it, and you, and me, and from there she could have had just about anything else she wanted." 

He furrows his brow at the sphere he's holding; the glasses buzz. (Are they _eyebrow-controlled_ now? She's clearly been leaving him alone too long.) He gives the halves of the sphere a quarter-twist in opposite directions, and the blinking light turns blue. He nods in evident satisfaction. "There. Reversed the polarity. That'll block a vortex manipulator within a hundred-foot radius."

"So she can't come back?"

"Not that way." The Doctor rolls the sphere in his hand. Clears his throat. "Clara, none of this… The reason you didn't tell me… You and Missy, it wasn't because…"

Awkward though this is, she has to put him out of his misery before he starts that sentence again. "Because of you?" They've never really talked about this, not since _I'm not your boyfriend_. She gives him the answer that hurts least. "No. It was just… a series of spectacularly bad decisions."

"Yes, she's like that." He glances at Clara. Looks away. "Do you want to talk about it?" he asks reluctantly. Then, even more reluctantly: "I guarantee I'd understand."

"No!" Clara says hastily. "I mean, no. Thanks." 

"Well, that's a relief." He sets his sphere down with the others. "One more thing." He reaches toward Clara's temples. "May I?"

Clara winces. "Why?" 

"I won't look at _that_ ," he says. "I just want to make sure she hasn't left behind any psychic surprises."

"I didn't let her in my head," Clara protests. The Doctor just looks at her. "Not like that," she says, barely above a whisper.

"And after all this, you're absolutely sure you would have _noticed_?"

"Oh, god." Clara buries her face in her hands. "Hand over the sunglasses. I want to erase the memory of this whole thing."

The Doctor shakes his head. "It's not that easy." 

"You did it before. On the underwater base. You erased those weird letters from our heads." 

"That was to save your life, not spare you embarrassment," he says. "Memories aren't an exact science. Last time, you also forgot how to play cribbage."

"I never knew how to play cribbage."

"That's what you think." He pulls up a chair next to her. "She could have hurt you. Please let me check." 

Clara closes her eyes for a long moment. Exhales. "Go ahead."

Cool fingers come to rest on her temples, and she feels a diffuse sensation of _presence_ in her head, a wash of suppressed emotion: regret as deep as her own, empathy, a gentleness she hadn't quite expected. 

When the Doctor lifts his fingers, his composure's perfectly in place, which gives Clara enough space to shore up her own. 

"You're fine," he says. 

Clara barks a laugh. "Now I know you didn't look."

A sharp rap at the door startles them both. The Doctor trails after Clara as she goes to answer it; she checks the peephole first, though she doesn't know why. She knows who it is. 

Missy stands in the doorway, polishing her fingernails on her jacket. "Nicely done. You got me." She peers past Clara to the Doctor. "Oh, _hello_. Swapping stories? I'm sure you two have plenty to discuss." 

Clara touches the Doctor's arm gently. "I've got this."

He frowns. "I'm not leaving." 

"God, no. Just… give me a minute."

He gives her a long look, but retreats. 

"Let me guess," Missy says. " _'Was any of it real?'_ " Her voice rises to a mocking falsetto before dropping back to her normal range. "Would you believe I just came here to steal the TARDIS and it turned into"—she lowers her eyelashes dramatically—"something more?" 

Clara almost smiles in spite of herself. "No."

Missy laughs in open, honest amusement. "I'll tell you one thing, girlfriend, the orgasms weren't faked." 

Clara digs in her pocket for the brooch. "Here. You left this."

Missy takes it, and looks at it in her palm for a long moment. "That's not the only thing I left."

"Yes, but you're not getting the others back." Clara hears the Doctor's tread behind her, and wonders what Missy will do at this, the moment of maximum potential embarrassment. 

But all she does is touch her lips lightly, chastely to Clara's cheek. "Thank you. Goodbye, dear."

Clara closes the door.


End file.
